


The Next Step: Become Your Own Better Half, Today

by buckgaybarnes



Category: Pacific Rim (Movies)
Genre: ......but fake, Fake Marriage, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Getting Together, M/M, Marriage Counseling, Mild Sexual Themes (but vaguely alluded to), Mutual Pining, Requires some suspension of disbelief, Romantic Comedy, Sharing a Bed, Shatterdome Era Hijinks, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, fake married round 2: electric boogaloo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-07
Updated: 2018-11-07
Packaged: 2019-08-19 21:37:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16542740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buckgaybarnes/pseuds/buckgaybarnes
Summary: Their situation soon lays itself out in front of him with horrifying clarity, and Newt does Hermann the favor of laying it out for him as well: there are two ‘The Next Step’s, both in the general South Florida area, both in the same outrageous price range, both counseling centers. One specializes in workplace relationships. One specializes in marriage.They are not at the one that specializes in workplace relationships.(OR: Newt and Hermann are sent off to mandatory workplace counseling for a week after Human Resources gets tired of dealing with them, quickly realize someone's screwed up along the way, and decide to play along anyway for the free vacation, as one does.)





	The Next Step: Become Your Own Better Half, Today

**Author's Note:**

> my GOD this took me way longer than i expected to post. 10k words seems great until you're editing it, or when you compare it to your last fake married fic and realize you inadvertently repeated a (small) chunk of dialogue 
> 
> go fucking NUTS. hope u all enjoy. thank you to my very excellent group chat for suggesting deliberately terrible marriage counseling center names

Newt’s in the process of poking around in the lab microwave—the one they use for food, not the Experiment Microwave that Newt sometimes likes to put samples in after Hermann goes to bed just to see what happens—and seriously debating getting out the rest of his tool kit and making some Modifications when the lab door swings open and Hermann clacks up behind him. Newt just keeps squinting at the tangle of wiring that had, until a few seconds ago, been concealed by the back panel.

“Newton,” Hermann declares, with ominous solemnity, “we’ve been summoned.” After a beat, he adds, “What on earth are you doing?”

Newt pokes his screwdriver—insulated! lab safety!—into the wiring, just to see what happens, and ignores what Hermann says entirely. “Hey, dude,” he says, “how many watts is our microwave?”

“How should I know?” Hermann says. “No. Why do _you_ need to know?”

“Well,” Newt tosses the screwdriver onto the counter and pushes his glasses back into place before he turns to face Hermann. Hermann’s looking more uptight than usual, but Newt’s priority is the microwave right now, so whatever is bugging the guy is just going to have to wait. “I have these little frozen burritos, and they never _cook_ right, so I was like, maybe I can jack this thing up,” because their budget barely allows for Hermann’s chalk expenses, let alone a new microwave, “and that way they won’t be cold in the middle—”

“We had a good microwave,” Hermann points out, and nods towards the Experiment Microwave née the Good Microwave, which is nestled between Newt’s specimen fridge and an industrial steel sink on Newt’s side of the lab. “It was an excellent microwave, in fact. And then you blew up a chunk of spleen in it and—Newton, this is not important.”

Newt has two half-frozen burritos that beg to differ, but he holds his tongue.

“We’ve been summoned,” Hermann repeats, “to Human Resources, on account of—and I quote directly—the ‘appalling’ number of complaints we’ve submitted about each other this month.” Hermann used airquotes, which means he’s really fired up about this.

Newt laughs as he strips his disposable gloves off. “Holy shit, really? I thought they started putting anything from us right into the shredder years ago.” Newt knows Hermann doesn’t _really_ mean anything by his HR complaints (which are mostly shit like _Dr. Geiszler has left his dishes in the sink for three days_ ), just like Hermann knows Newt doesn’t mean anything by his (which are mostly shit like _Dr. Gottlieb called me a manchild just because I left my dishes in the sink for three days_ ). It’s their private little game. It’s their, like, banter.

Hermann sniffs. He holds out a little pink memo slip—their Summons, Newt assumes—to Newt. Newt takes it. “Yes, well, there’s a new head, evidently.”

Newt scans the pink slip, which does turn out to the be summons. They’re scheduled for a meeting in half an hour. It must be pretty fucking urgent. Newt crumples it up when he finishes reading and tosses it in the general direction of his desk trash can. He misses it. “Carol left, then?”

“Transferred to Vladivostok last month,” Hermann says, eyeing the crumpled memo with distaste.

“Man,” Newt sighs. Carol knew them well enough—or, at any rate, just got _used to_ them enough—to not take them seriously. “I’m sure it’s nothing important. They probably just want to make sure we aren’t _literally_ going to kill each other or something.”

 

The new head of HR is some artsy type named Peter who’s plastered the walls with photographs of himself backpacking across various scenic landscapes and looks like he says stuff like _juice cleanse_ unironically. Newt and Hermann are squeezed elbow-to-elbow and knee-to-knee on a little couch across from Peter’s desk—“I wanted the office to have a more _welcoming_ feeling,” Peter explained when Hermann inquired about Peter’s redecorating decisions, namely, what the hell happened to the chairs—and, five minutes into the meeting, Newt realizes, to his growing horror, that he’s _severely_ misjudged the situation.

“A retreat?” Hermann says, deathly, deathly calm. “I’m afraid I don’t quite understand what you mean.”

“I talked it over with the team,” Peter says (this is the third time he’s mentioned _the team_ , like he isn’t one of exactly four people in the department), flashing a smile, “and we all agree it’s for the best. According to your predictive model, Dr. Gottlieb, we shouldn’t be expecting another kaiju attack for at least a month. Isn’t that right?”

Hermann looks mildly stunned. “Er,” Hermann says. “Yes, I suppose, but—”

“Good,” Peter says, and then he pulls out a _very_ thick envelope. Thick enough that both of their names fit on the binding. Thick enough that it _has_ binding. He flips through it, occasionally _tsk_ ing or humming. Newt shoots Herman a nervous glance. “You two have _quite_ the history,” Peter says. “Noise complaints. Occupational safety and health violations. Lunch theft. Verbal insults.” He pauses on one form, then raises his eyebrows. “Dr. Geiszler, did you really eat Dr. Gottlieb’s chalk?”

“It was _one_ time,” Newt says.

Peter _tsk_ s again, and shakes his head. “Yes,” he says, “yes, this little retreat is exactly what you two need.” He closes the file and smiles again. “I’m sure Marshal Pentecost won’t miss his research division for... Oh, let’s say a week. After all, once you work your difficulties out, I bet your productivity rates will _triple_.”

Peter produces two pamphlets, seemingly from nowhere, and slides them across his minimalist desk. Newt picks one up. _The Next Step_ , bold letters declare across the front, and in in cursive, below a picture of two stern business types shaking hands, _There’s no I in team!_ and below _that_ , running across the bottom in small bold letters, _The #1 Workplace Counseling Center In the World._ Newt’s pretty sure it’s also the _only_ workplace counseling center in the world. He flicks through it, catching random snippets about training and group therapy and boring shit like that—it’s in Florida, apparently, all the fucking way back in America—and then he catches sight of the _price per night_. “The PPDC will be covering all of your expenses, of course,” Peter assures them, as if he read Newt’s mind, or maybe he just heard Hermann’s little noise of horror. “Plane fare, the retreat itself, food. Anything you two might possibly need.”

“But _Florida_? For a whole week?” Newt says. “Dude. Come on. They need us here. We’re kind of important.”

“I agree with Dr. Geiszler,” Hermann says. “Our work is crucial,” Newt nods quickly, “and I really feel as if our best course of action—”

Peter holds up a hand, and Hermann’s mouth snaps shut. “Next Sunday,” Peter says, and that’s that. “Pack your bags, Doctors.”

 

* * *

 

“‘The Next Step’,” Newt read aloud as their taxi pulls into the beginning of the counseling center’s long, gravel driveway and past the painted wooden sign, his nose pressed to the car window. The last forty-eight hours of their lives have been a hellish mess of jet lag and sleeping pills, between navigating the Hong Kong airport, their layover in Chicago, and then finally Miami, and all Newt really wants to do is just kind of lay on the ground and fall asleep. At least they’re _finally_ here, even if the center looks a little...different...than it did on the pamphlet. He doesn’t remember the swimming pools being advertised, or the massive glass windows, or the sprawling gardens. “This place is bougie as shit, Hermann.”

“I suppose this is where our funding for the next decade has gone,” Hermann gripes, but he does look a  _little_ pleased.

They’re greeted at the door by a ridiculously tan blonde dude in a blue polo and khakis who introduces himself as Glenn, the owner of the counseling center. No last name. Just _Glenn_. “Dr. and Dr. Gottlieb?” Glenn says, and Newt and Hermann snort in unison.

“Uh, _no_ ,” Newt says. “I’m Dr. Geiszler, that’s,” he nods to Hermann, “Dr. Gottlieb.”

“Right, of course,” Glenn says, smiling. “It’s different for you academic folks.” He claps his hands together and motions for them to follow him, though Newt isn't really quite sure what to make of that comment. “Well, come on in! We’ll have your luggage sent to your room in a bit."

Newt and Hermann share a look.

“‘Room’?” Hermann says under his breath as they trail after Glenn and a similarly-dressed man hurries by to get their bags from the taxi.

“Probably part of the counseling experience,” Newt whispers back, and rolls his eyes. “Learning cohabitation or something.” Hermann makes a noise of disgust. “Look, dude, I don’t like it anymore than you do.” He had to share a room with Hermann once when the PPDC leant them out to another Shatterdome for a weekend, and it was a fucking nightmare. He couldn’t keep a single sock on the floor without Hermann threatening murder or more HR complaints.

“Something wrong, Doctors?” Glenn says, suddenly turning around with that same smile plastered on his face. There’s something unnerving about him that Newt can’t quite place his finger on, a little  _Stepford Wives_ , maybe, but Newt gives a thumbs up, satisfying Glenn. “We’re very proud of our facilities here,” Glenn continues. “Buffet style dining. Complimentary room service. Spa. All of which you gents get complete access to, of course, since you folks booked the Premium package.”

“Shit,” Newt whispers. “Peter really hooked us up.” He’s glad he packed a bathing suit, but he doubts he’ll be able to talk Hermann into going to the beach with him.

Glenn pushes open a door into a small, well-lit room, with windows with a nice view of the grounds and armchairs arranged in a circle in the center. All but two of them, placed next to each other, are taken. Newt’s a little surprised at the demographic (about a dozen others), especially for a workplace relationship counseling center: every pairing there seems to be male-female. “Y’all are the last to arrive,” Glenn says. “Pull up a chair and we’ll get started with introductions!”

He slaps Newt on the back, and Newt almost trips. Hermann turns his snicker into a fake cough. Newt makes sure to _accidentally_ elbow Hermann in the ribs as they sit down.

Glenn takes a seat next to a woman blonde and tan and toothy enough to be his sister, and she immediately greets him with a kiss on his cheek. Maybe not his sister, then. “So,” Glenn says, rubbing his hands together, and the quiet chatter of the room dies down. “You’re all here for the same reason. You built something precious together. Something priceless. Irreplaceable. And somehow, it’s been broken. Just like—” He snaps his fingers. “—that.” He pauses and looks around the room, letting his words sink in, and then steeples his hands in his lap. “Maybe it’s just a little crack. Maybe it’s completely shattered. But luckily for you, we’ve got the glue.”

Hermann covers up another little laugh with a cough.

The blonde next to Glenn nods. “I’m Michelle,” she says, turning a fond smile on him. “Glenn’s my husband. We’ve been doing this for ten years, and we’ve never had a problem we haven’t been able to fix. We were broken once, too, but look at us now.” She takes Glenn’s hand, and Glenn returns her smile.

“Yeah,” one of the women in the circle suddenly bursts out, “but he didn’t fuck your sister, did he?”

The man sitting next to the woman—who, until her outburst, was slumped in his chair with his arms crossed—scowls at her. “Don’t embarrass yourself, Karen,” he hisses.

“Embarrass _my_ self?” Karen says, visibly swelling with fury. She jumps to her feet. “I’m _embarrassing_ myself?”

Newt catches Hermann’s eye, and he’s pretty sure he’s thinking the exact same thing as Newt, which is _what the fuck_.

“Alright!” Michelle says loudly, just as it looks like Karen is really about to throttle her co-worker. Who apparently fucked her sister. Newt’s glad his and Hermann’s baggage isn’t that fucking weird. (On the other hand, _we sort of fell in love over letters, realized we hate each other, and now we have to share a lab while we fight aliens_ is probably fucking weird.) Karen settles back into her chair. Michelle hasn’t lost her smile. “Good,” she says. “Now. Let’s go around the circle and introduce ourselves.”

“Let’s have our latecomers go first,” Glenn suggests, and all eyes turn on Newt and Hermann. Oh boy. “You know, names, how y’all met.”

“Uh,” Newt says, when it becomes clear Hermann is going to make him do the heavy lifting. “Hi. I’m Newt. This is Hermann. We lead the k-science division over in Hong Kong. I do the messy shit, you know, biology, Hermann’s the more math-y side.”

“They’re scientists,” Glenn interrupts. “Doctors. Isn’t that _exciting_?”

He's more than a little condescending, and on top of that, no one else seems to think Newt and Hermann are very exciting.

“And, uh,” Newt says. “We met about—ten years ago?”

“Eleven,” Hermann corrects.

“Yeah,” Newt says. “Eleven. We were pen pals before we started _working_ working together.”

“Pen pals!” Michelle exclaims. She holds her hand over her heart. “How romantic.”

Newt looks at Hermann. Hermann looks at Newt.

“Uh,” Newt says.

“Er,” Hermann says.

“Harrison’s a scientist too,” Glenn says, and an older, fifty-something dude in clear-framed glasses sitting across from them—Harrison, Newt assumes—perks up at the mention of his name. “A chemist. Isn’t that right?”

“Sure is,” says Harrison, smiling at the group.

“Why don’t you and your wife introduce yourselves next?” Michelle says.

_Your wife_.

Newt's nerves stir to life.

There are a few pamphlets scattered across the small side table to the left of Newt’s chair, so he reaches out and grabs one. _The Next Step_ , bold letters say across the top. But the font’s different than the one Peter had given them in his office—it’s curlier, much more _romantic_ —and the picture below it is not of two business types shaking hands, but a man and a woman with their arms wrapped around each other on a beautiful sunlit beach. The entire color scheme is different, really. (Oh no.) _Become Your Own Better Half, Today_ , it also says. (Oh _no_.) And then, along the bottom, most damning of all: _Marriage Counseling_.

“Hermann,” Newt hisses, swatting at Hermann’s arm, and Harrison and his wife talk about some fucking church picnic they met at. “ _Hermann_.”

Hermann glances in his direction, and Newt waves the pamphlet, jabbing his finger frantically at _Marriage Counseling_. Hermann’s face drains of color.

 

They haul ass out of there the second each couple—couple!—finishes introducing themselves, and Newt pulls Hermann into a secluded little alcove in the hallway behind a large plant. Hermann’s more than a little dazed; Newt shakes him a bit. “What the hell, dude,” he says, waving the pamphlet. _Become your own better half!_ “What the hell?”

“There’s been a terrible misunderstanding,” Hermann says, after working his jaw furiously a few times in that weird way he has. “A terrible—”

Newt laughs shrilly. “Yeah, no _shit_.”

“Something the matter, fellas?” Glenn says, suddenly appearing over Hermann’s shoulder. Hermann snaps around to face him.

“No,” Newt and Hermann say at the same time.

Glenn narrows his eyes, clearly not believing them, but Newt hopes he just thinks they’re having a domestic quarrel or something. Dysfunctional husbands being dysfunctional husbands. Oh, God, they think Newt is _married_ to Hermann. “Well, alright,” Glenn says. “Why don’t you folks just head over the dining hall and get some food before our first official session at six? Maybe tour a bit?”

Six. That gives them four hours to decide what the hell to do next. Cool. Okay. “Food,” Newt says. “Awesome. C’mon, _honey_.” He links his right arm with Hermann’s left and tugs him from the alcove, and they hurry off, leaving Glenn watching them suspiciously.

 

Hermann examines the pamphlet over a cup of coffee in the dining hall while Newt does some Investigative Googling on his phone. Their situation soon lays itself out in front of him with horrifying clarity, and Newt does Hermann the favor of laying it out for him as well: there are two ‘ _The Next Step’_ s, both in the general South Florida area, both in the same outrageous price range, both counseling centers. One specializes in workplace relationships. One specializes in marriage.

They are not at the one that specializes in workplace relationships.

Someone in HR royally fucked up.

“I suppose we’ll have to tell someone,” Hermann says with a sigh, folding the pamphlet shut. Newt wonders if it was as much as a trip for him to read as it was for Newt: the photos of carbon copy smiling straight-white-blonde couples page after page, the testimonials (“We regained that old spark!”), the supposed success rate of 99%. “That we’re not meant to be here, I mean. That someone’s made a mistake.”

“Mm,” Newt says. He’s started Googling pictures and details of the other _The Next Step_. It’s still expensive, but nowhere near as fancy. No spa. No gardens. No complimentary room service. Newt's started to get an idea. “I guess. But.”

“But?”

“Consider our predicament.” Newt locks his phone with a click. “We’re meant to be here, right? We’re on the guest list, we apparently have a room, Glenn and Michelle looked into us,” he holds up a finger for each point on the list. “Most importantly, the PPDC _already paid_ for us to be here.”

“They have,” Hermann says, nodding slowly.

“They’ve already paid for our tickets home in a week,” Newt continues. “If we came clean we’d be costing a _lot_ of money.” Hermann nods again. “Now. Okay. Hear me out. When’s the last time we had a vacation? With a spa, and a buffet, and a beach that _isn’t_ in perpetual danger of a kaiju attack? Or, you know, horrifying polluted?”

“Never,” Hermann says, full understanding of Newt's plan beginning to dawn on him, and a smile creeps across his face, “as far as I can recall.” 

“Well,” Newt says. “Hermann, I think we’re decided.”

Serves Peter right for trying to make them talk about their _feelings_ or whatever.

 

“We’ll need a cover story, I suppose,” Hermann says a bit later. They're walking along the grounds together, in a rare moment of not-yelling-at-each other. It’s humid—Newt doesn’t know _how_ Hermann isn’t on the verge of collapsing in his usual sweatervest-blazer-slacks combo—but pretty enough out, lots of trees and flowers and sun and benches, and aside from the light clack of Hermann’s cane on the paved walkway the only thing they hear is birdsong. Picturesque, really.

“Cover story,” Newt repeats, and hums thoughtfully. They already (unknowingly) almost blew it back in the first meeting by introducing themselves as co-workers, but Glenn and Michelle seemed to assume they meant in _addition_ to being married, so Newt doesn’t see why they can’t just...use that as their basis. “Let’s just be _us_ ,” he says. “Newt and Hermann, except we’re married, you know?”

Hermann comes to a halt next to him, shoulders stiffening. “What?” he says, working his jaw again. His knuckles have tightened around the head of his cane. “Really?”

“It’d be the easiest lie to remember,” Newt says, not sure if Hermann’s about to, like, punch him or something. (He feels an odd sort of disappointment bubbling in his chest.) He nudges Hermann with his elbow companionably. Damage control. “Besides, you heard Michelle. Our story is _romantic_. Pen pals to lovers at the end of the world.”

“Don’t joke,” Hermann snaps, and just like that, every flicker of comfortable companionship they’d built up that afternoon—plotting and scheming does that to people—is instantly snuffed out. Newt feels the smile slide off his face. He didn’t realize he’s that _repulsive_ to Hermann.

“I wasn’t,” Newt says, feeling like shit. “It _is_ the easiest. Jesus, forget it, nevermind, let’s just go home.”

“No,” Hermann says, losing some tension. “No, it’s just—we don’t have rings. Our last names are different. Won’t that look suspect?”

“We’re scientists.” Newt shrugs. “We spend all our time in a lab working with dangerous materials. At least I do. We can just say we didn’t want to lose our rings. And last names—I mean, that’s easy. Two Dr. Gottliebs or two Dr. Geiszlers running around publishing papers and shit would be confusing, wouldn’t it?” You academic types, Glenn said. He already bought that.

“We’ll have to think of a reason as to why we’re seeking counseling,” Hermann says, and Newt laughs.

“Seriously?”

Hermann frowns.

“Why would Dr. Geiszler and Dr. Gottlieb, married couple, seek counseling?” Newt says. “Have you met us? Why _wouldn’t_ we? Dude, we’d be the most fucking dysfunctional couple of all time. You’d probably kill me in my sleep after a week. During the _honeymoon._ ” It’s the truth, obviously, they _would_ be a dysfunctional couple, they’re dysfunctional enough as colleagues, but saying it aloud makes Newt feel...weirdly sad.

There’s an uncomfortable silence.

“Yes,” Hermann says. “I suppose you’re right.” He looks long and hard at Newt, swallowing and shifting his jaw. “Newton...” And of course that’s when Newt’s phone starts buzzing wildly in his pocket, and he swears and fumbles to turn it off; it’s the little reminder he set earlier so they wouldn’t be late for the evening session. By the time he’s successful, Hermann’s closed off and ramrod-straight once more. Whatever he was going to say, Newt’s not going to hear it. “Come,” Hermann says, and turns back in the direction they came from. “We’ll be late.”

 

This meeting is similar to the one they had earlier—they all sit in a circle, and go around and say their names again—but with a little extra instruction tacked on. According to Glenn, the first most important step in Mending Their Mistakes is airing all their problems out in the open and in front of everyone. “You don’t need to go too deep yet,” Glenn explains, after checking in with them all to see how they liked their meals/walks/etc etc etc, and Newt thinks there’s something decidedly artificial about his smile (dentures, maybe, or the result of an extensive whitening procedure). “Just tell us why you’re here, so we know _just_ how to proceed with your week. We have different specialists for everything.”

“Would anyone like to—?” Michelle began, and the woman Newt remembers from this morning (Karen, with the sister) raises her hand. Michelle’s smile falters for only a moment. “Yes, Karen?”

Newt learns out more about their “fellow” couples than he, frankly, really wants to know. Aside from the cuckolded Karen, there’s a woman still hung up on her ex (her current husband is convinced she only married him to make the ex jealous), an ultra-Christian couple who make Newt’s skin crawl (the man of which is, apparently, struggling with his faith, his wife unsure of if she can stay with him if he ‘rejects God’), a sex therapist and his English professor wife just there to quote-unquote _strengthen their bond_ , and a couple who found out three weeks ago that they’re fifth cousins and are unsure of the ethical ramifications of staying together (one of those was the chemist). (“They’re actually making us look _normal_ ,” Newt mutters to Hermann under his breath.)

Then it’s their turn.

“So,” Glenn says, turning his unsettling smile on them once more. “What are we fixing for you folks this week?”

What would Dr. Geiszler, husband of Dr. Gottlieb, go to therapy for? “Hermann’s obsessed with work,” Newt says. He sees Hermann bristle out of the corner of his eye. “He hardly ever has time for me, you know? Or for _us_. Like he’s got a perpetual stick up his ass. And he’s always nagging at me, and calling me a mess—”

“Because you _are_ a mess,” Hermann interrupts, scowling. It doesn’t look like it’s for show, either. Whatever, Hermann  _does_ have a perpetual stick up his ass.

“Now, Dr. Gottlieb—”

“And he’s emotionally repressed as _hell_ —”

But Hermann bristles once more, and suddenly declares “Newton doesn’t fulfill me sexually.”

“ _What_?” Newt says.

“What?” Michelle says, blinking.

“Er.” Hermann’s cheeks are red. “He leaves me...unsatisfied. When he bothers to attempt to—well—I’ve talked to him about it, of course, but he—”

“I fulfill you!” Newt exclaims, unable to sit idly by and let Hermann tarnish his reputation, entirely fake though it may be. Asshole. Newt would be the most fucking satisfying husband of all time. Especially if it was Hermann. Just to prove a point, you know, nothing weird. “I’m very fulfilling! I satisfy you all the time!”

“He doesn’t,” Hermann says, mournfully. “He hasn’t in years.”

“Maybe if you _worked less_ I’d—”

“Yes, thank you, Doctors,” Glenn cuts in loudly, and claps his hands together. “Now that that’s all out of the way, let’s move onto schedules for tomorrow.”

Newt doesn’t stop glaring at Hermann until they’re dismissed and told to wait in the hallway to be taken to their rooms, and even then, he only stops glaring to swat at Hermann’s arm instead. Hermann doesn’t even have the decency to pretend it hurts. “You dick!” Newt says, once he’s sure they’re alone. “What the _hell_ was that about?”

Hermann sniffs. “‘Why would Dr. Geiszler and Dr. Gottlieb, married couple, seek counselling?’” he quotes. “I was only following your instructions.”

“I didn’t say to tell everyone I’m bad in bed!”

“ _You_ shouldn’t have said I nag you,” Hermann counters. “Or that I have a stick up my arse.”

“Dick,” Newt repeats, and then adds for good measure, “Asshole. I’m a beast in the sack. I’d _never_ leave anyone unsatisfied. And especially not my husband. Now we’re going to have to spend all week working on _intimacy_ —”

“Your room is ready!” Glenn says, and Newt and Hermann both jump again. He waves them on, jogging towards the staircase.

“ _Jesus_ ,” Newt hisses to Hermann as they start to follow, “he’s like a fucking demon or something. Did you hear him? I didn’t hear him.”

“Shut up,” Hermann hisses back.

 

Their room overlooks the little garden they walked in yesterday, and the master bath door is cracked, giving Newt a glimpse of what looks like a _huge_ bathtub with fancy jets and shit. It would be nice if it wasn’t for a handful of things: a, the lack of a second bed, which means they’ll be sharing, b, its distinctly _romantic_ color scheme and general aura (red-purple-pink curtains, pillows, blankets, bedspread, wall paint, and the hearts everywhere, and the vase of roses on the bedside table, and the mood lighting), and c, the wall decor, which consists of a handful of large framed photographs of Glenn and Michelle and at least eight posters of inspirational quotes about marriage that looked like they were pulled right from Pinterest.It’s a lot to take in, and Newt and Hermann both stand in the doorway just _staring_ for a bit before Glenn finally nudges them inside.

“We set you up in the suite we use for cases like yours,” he explains, and then lowers his voice and winks, “you know. Problems with intimacy.”

“Ah,” Hermann says.

“Your luggage’s all over there,” Glenn says, and points to the corner, where it’s been stacked up, and then he pulls a neatly-folded piece of paper from his top pocket, “and here’s your schedule for tomorrow.” Hermann takes it. “Let’s see if we can’t be the glue you need, huh, Doctors?”

Newt groans the second the door is shut. “ _God_ , I fucking hate that guy. There’s something weird about him, right? Like, not just me?”

“Not just you,” Hermann agrees. He’s started examining the schedule. “We have a therapy session at eleven tomorrow. Hm. I’ll shower tonight, if you don’t mind.”

Newt walks over to the bed and flops down on it. “Serial killer,” he says, playing with the tassels on one of the heart-shaped pillows. “Or vampire. Maybe he runs a cult and this is how he recruits people.” _Problems are not stop signs,_ a poster on the wall says, _they are guidelines_. Lame.

“And another at five,” Hermann continues. “Oh, hell, that one’s three hours, Newton.”

“This bed is super comfy,” Newt says. He pats it. “Sit down. C’mon.” Hermann lowers the schedule and eyes him warily. Newt pats the pink bedspread again. “Look, it’s not weird, we’re gonna be sharing it all week—”

“We _will_?” Hermann says.

Newt tosses at heart pillow at Hermann, who makes no effort to catch it. It hits his chest and bounces to the (plush red) throw rug. “One bed, dude,” Newt says. “I’m not gonna be the one sleeping on the floor.”

“Neither am I,” Hermann says, in a way that makes it clear he assumed Newt would be. Which, rude. The bed is absolutely big enough for the both of them. Newt spreads himself out, starfish style, just to prove his point. His limbs don’t reach the edges of the mattress.

(They’ve shared a bed before once, not just a room, back in their first year at the Shatterdome. They both have laughably low alcohol tolerances and drank a little too much after a base New Year party—Hermann especially; Newt tried to act the charitable, caring lab partner and make sure Hermann made it home without breaking his neck or sleeping in the hallway; _home_ ended up being Newt’s bunk, since it was closest, and they collapsed on Newt’s bed in a fit of giggles and woke up the next morning hungover and spooning. Newt could deal with a hangover, but it took him two weeks to look Hermann in the eyes again over the spooning.)

“C’mon,” he says again. “Don’t you want to get cracking on those intimacy issues?” Hermann glares. Newt throws another heart-shaped pillow at him, and Hermann drops their schedule in favor of actually batting this one away before it hits him. “You know, Hermann, as a wise motivational poster hanging above the dresser once told me,” he raises his voice for dramatic effect, “‘all relationships go through hell, but _real_ relationships get through it.’”

“Luckily for us,” Hermann says, clacking over to the bureau and sliding open the top drawer, “we aren’t in a real relationship. Oh, dear.”

“What?” Newt says, raising his head eagerly. “Manifestos for their cult?”

“Er,” Hermann says. Newt jumps off the bed to scurry over and peek around Hermann’s shoulder.

The drawer is fucking jam-packed with a mind-boggling miasma of shrink-wrapped and brightly-hued sex toys. Like, _packed_. It looks like a Bad Dragon catalogue in there. Hermann slams it shut after exactly one second, bright red, while Newt dissolves into a fit of helpless giggles. “I just,” Hermann stammers, “I only wanted shampoo! For the bath.”

“This place is so fucking weird,” Newt says delightedly. “What other shit do they have in here?” He yanks open the second drawer: there’s a collection of factory-sealed lube and condoms, all of various flavors. “Safe sex advocates,” Newt says, “nice.” He pops the lid on something that smells like the artificial cherry of cough medicine and waves it under Hermann’s nose. “Dare me to eat some?” he says, and Hermann bats him away and storms off to the bathroom.

Newt’s gone through the rest of the drawers and changed into pajamas by the time he hears Hermann turn the bathtub tap off, and he amuses himself with flipping through some self-help pamphlets he found in the bedside table (alongside a Bible, of course, because this place is determined to keep up its whole weird pseudo-Christian vibe, even in sex toy suites) until Hermann steps out in a waft of steam and an outrageously fluffy pink bathrobe. It's so big Newt can only barely see his head poking out from the collar. “Nice bath?” Newt says, flicking through _Help! Kaiju Killed My Sex Drive_ for the third time and sucking intermittently on a little plastic spoon. Most of the self-help stuff here seems to follow that general theme. “Hey, Hermann, did you know that divorce rates skyrocketed after Trespasser? Really makes you think.”

“What are you eating?” Hermann says. “I hope it’s not that cherry—”

“What?” Newt says, and then looks down at his plastic spoon, where he’s buried back into the little container it came attached to. “Oh, right. I found body chocolate in one of the drawers, and I was hungry and too lazy to call room service. Want some?”

He holds out the container. Hermann makes a face. “Oh, Newton, that’s disgusting.”

“Still no shampoo, by the way,” Newt continues, then tosses both chocolate and pamphlet to the throw rug. “Nice bathrobe,” he says, as Hermann clacks across the hardwood to the large mirror hanging over the dresser. “Looking real hot, dude. Do we have matching ones?”

“There’s one in there for you, yes,” Hermann says, squinting at his reflection. He starts toweling at his hair with one of the—plush pink!—towels the staff here laid out atop the dresser. “The bathtub is quite nice, I must say.”

“Enough room for two?” Newt says, leering at him over his shoulder.

Hermann’s eyes meet his in the mirror. He’s frowning. “Newton.”

“Lighten up,” Newt says, but his stomach twists unpleasantly. “Just getting into character, honey-pie. Sweetheart. Babydoll?” What would Dr. Geiszler call his grumpy husband?

“No,” Hermann says. He’s dug a fancy little pajama set out of his suitcase, probably while Newt was running his mouth, and now he holds the bundle under his arm and looks awkwardly between Newt and the bathroom door. “Newton. I don’t mean to be an inconvenience, but would you mind—”

“I’ve seen you naked before, man,” Newt says. “Or, mostly naked.” They use the decontamination shower in the lab more frequently than they should, which is, you know, Newt's fault. But Hermann doesn’t budge, nor does he show any indication of budging soon, so Newt sighs heavily, hops off the bed, and shuts himself in the bathroom until Hermann raps on the door with the okay to come out.

Newt has no such qualms about changing in front of Hermann, so he strips off his shirt and jeans the second he’s out and wriggles into a pair of old sweatpants instead. He expects Hermann to squawk in indignation, maybe give a wildly scandalized _Newton!,_ but to his surprise, when he turns around, Hermann’s pink in the face and _very_ determinedly pouring over a small booklet called _Sex, Love, and Kaiju: One Man’s Account of How the Kaiju War Gave Him A Second Chance_. Newt read that one, too—it’s by some ex-jaeger pilot-turned-Wall of Life advocate who retired into a comfortable life of motivational speaking, self-help books, and raising two-point-five kids with his wife. “Interesting stuff?” Newt says.

“Mm.”

Newt stretches out on the bed next to Hermann, then props himself up on his elbow, facing him. “I think I remember that guy from the jaeger academy,” Newt says, scrutinizing the photo of the ex-pilot splashed across the back of the booklet. Bulky stern brunette guy. “Total jackass. He didn’t like me at all. Beat me up a few times, actually, like we were in fucking middleschool.” Hermann does a bad job of hiding his smirk. “Oh, shut up.”

“I didn’t say anything,” Hermann says, and turns another page. His ears are still a little red.

Newt rolls onto his back and stares at the photograph of Glenn and Michelle hanging above the bed. Their weird, perfect tans and blonde hair. Their weird, perfect smiles. “I feel like they’re watching us,” Newt says, and Hermann makes another noncommittal grunt. Newt takes off his glasses just so he can’t see them anymore and follows the blurry lines of cracks in the ceiling until he drifts into sleep.

 

* * *

 

They don’t end up accidentally spooning this time, but Newt does wake up with his head pillowed on Hermann’s chest and Hermann’s arm wrapped around his shoulder. He’s not sure how they even ended up like this; Hermann stuck pretty hard to his side of the bed the night before. As hard as he’s sticking to Newt now. “Hermann,” Newt mumbles, poking Hermann’s side. Hermann sniffles in his sleep, and his arm around Newt tightens. He can feel Hermann’s steady inhaling-exhaling ruffling the hair at the top of his head. “ _Hermann_ ,” he hisses. Hermann sniffles again, his breath hitching, and then suddenly he’s shooting straight up and shoving Newt away. “Dude!”

“Sorry,” Hermann says. Newt nearly jabs himself in the eye trying to stick his glasses back on, and when he succeeds, he sees a red-faced and mortified Hermann looming above him. “Newton. I didn’t—”

Newt waves him off. “‘S’fine. I cuddled back. We’re even.”

Hermann continues to stutter out apologies as Newt climbs out of bed and stretches. They slept in late, _very_ late (lingering jetlag effects), which means they’ve got about an hour before they have to be down for their first therapy session with (according to their schedule) someone called Dale. They dress quickly and eat breakfast even more quickly, Hermann still mortified and refusing eye contact the entire time, and they manage to make it to the room their session is being held in with five minutes to spare.

Dale is forty-something, with dark hair and a patient smile, and he introduces himself and greets them warmly when he shows up right on the dot. It’s just the three of them. Newt forgot this was a private session. At least Dale is marginally less creepy than Glenn and less condescending than Peter, even if he doesn’t bother taking a seat and just stands in front of them flipping through some notes like they’re at an undergraduate lecture. “So,” Dale says. “Dr. Geiszler. Dr. Gottlieb. How did you enjoy your first night?”

“It was...satisfactory,” Hermann says.

“Hermann liked the bathtub,” Newt pipes up.

“Yes,” Dale says, nodding. “Yes, you two are in the suite we reserve for special cases such as yours, aren’t you?” Newt and Hermann nod. Dale looks satisfied. “Good.” He paces a bit, then suddenly turns to Hermann. “Dr. Gottlieb, I’d like to start with you. It says here Dr. Geiszler doesn’t fulfill your sexual needs?”

“Ah,” Hermann says. “Yes, I did _say_ that, but—”

Dale doesn’t play along with the deflection. “Could you explain this in more detail?”

“Yeah,” Newt says. “Can you, Hermann?”

Hermann clenches and unclenches his jaw. “Newton is incredibly self-absorbed,” he says. “When we’re—intimate, he sees to his own satisfaction before mine.”

Newt’s on the verge of jumping in and defending his hypothetical honor once more, but Dale raises his hand before he can speak. “Are you frequently intimate?”

“No,” Hermann says, and then he gives a deeply exaggerated sigh. “Hardly at all these days. Our work is demanding, you must understand. And when we have the time…”

Dale nods, hums sympathetically. “And have you confronted Newton about this?”

“ _No_ ,” Newt cuts in, because if the Newt married to Hermann is anything like him Newt, there’s no way Newt would ignore something like that. (Again: _not_ because it's Hermann. It's not weird.) “He sure hasn’t.”

Dale doesn’t ignore him, exactly, but he does change the subject. “Dr. Geiszler,” he says. “Do you feel you’ve been neglecting Hermann’s needs?”

“Not at all!” Newt exclaims, and he doesn’t totally mean to say what he says next, “Hermann’s, like, the hottest dude ever. I’d never—” He flushes. “I mean, you know.”

“What is it then, Dr. Geiszler?” Dale says.

“Stress,” Newt says, and immediately begins wracking his brain for anything he can remember from the _Help!_ pamphlet. “The knowledge of my own mortality and insignificance in the universe?” It’s the truth, in a way; all of Newt’s relationships—which is, like, three—from the first kaiju attack on (save Hermann, in the friendship sense, though Newt’s not sure if he counts) have crashed and burned spectacularly. Newt was just too distracted with work, and with the literal aliens rising from the sea, and he tried, he really did, but it seemed silly to focus on maintaining relationships (on one tiny little aspect of a tiny little life) when the world was at stake. So he stopped trying.

“I see,” Dale says. “Interesting, considering you claim that Dr. Gottlieb—” he flips through his notes, “—works too much, and has no time for you.”

“Uh, yeah,” Newt says.

“And that he’s ‘emotionally repressed’.”

“Yeah,” Newt repeats. "Yep."

“Dr. Gottlieb,” Dale continues, “do you think Dr. Geiszler is wrong?”

Hermann shakes his head slowly. “Not entirely. I suppose I can be...closed off.”

Dale smiles at them. “Now we’re getting somewhere!”

 

They’re dismissed about a half hour later—a half hour of Hermann playing the dissatisfied, repressed, workaholic husband, of Newt playing the self-centered neglectful one. Newt’s still mildly embarrassed over calling Hermann hot, even if it _was_ supposed to be in-character, and Hermann’s clearly still mildly embarrassed over the whole cuddling thing, so Newt has a feeling they’re both relieved when Hermann declares he’ll be going to the spa alone.

It’s short-lived, unfortunately: not even twenty minutes pass before Hermann storms into the dining hall (where Newt had been going to town on the buffet) looking pissed as hell. “It’s _mandatory_ for couples to do everything _together_ ,” Hermann says. “They wouldn’t let me in for a bloody massage. Can you believe it!”

“Everything?” Newt says, and finally looks around the room at the two other couples that are there. Both complete sets. “Ugh. Gross.” There go Newt’s beach plan. “Tell you what, Hermann,” he says, and pats the chair next to him, “you sit here and eat with me for a bit, we can get that massage.”

“The massage is besides the point,” Hermann says, scowling. “I’d like _some_ privacy. This is meant to be our holiday.”

“I think that joint massage could really help our intimacy issues, actually,” Newt says, and Hermann’s scowl deepens, but he does steal a bit of Newt’s cake.

The massage turns out to be very, very weird. The room is lit up by candlelight, there’s jazz music playing, and they stick Newt and Hermann in little towels and arrange them so they’re lying on their stomachs facing each other as their backs are worked over. Hermann keeps making these barely-audible groaning sounds that make Newt feel fuzzy and a little light-headed, so he quickly does his best to break the strange, intimate calm. “I read your newest theory,” Newt says, “the one you’re gonna submit to Pentecost during the next evaluation,” and Hermann blinks hazily at him, a half-smile on his face.

“Hm?” he says. The masseuse pinches Hermann’s shoulder and Hermann makes a noise that makes Newt’s brain go _!!!!!!!!!_ and Newt knows he needs a new course of action, abort mission stat, he was all set on complimenting Hermann, actually, but maybe now—

“It _sucked_ ,” Newt says, and just like that, Hermann’s smile drops from his face and he's bristling and acidic and flinging disparaging remarks about Newt’s work once more. Good. Perfect. Home sweet home.

 

Hermann’s still riled up when they go to their evening session, though—compared to most of the other couples—he’s the calmest bastard there. They’re supposed to be going around and saying what they accomplished today, what _breakthroughs_ they made, but tensions are high, because—apparently—Karen’s husband tried to hit on the mega-Christian woman by the pool earlier that afternoon. By the time the resulting shouting match is over, they’re forty-five minutes behind schedule. “Dr. Geiszler,” Glenn says, smile forced by now, “what kind of progress did you and Dr. Gottlieb make today?”

“Uh,” Newt says, “Hermann and I talked about how our work is having a negative effect on our personal lives.”

“Would you care to elaborate?” Glenn says.

They didn’t really get this far with Dale. Newt wonders if he should bullshit something, but then realizes he  _does_ think Hermann overworks himself. He and Hermann have a working relationship that’s tempestuous and uncomfortable and constantly teetering between _you’re my only friend_ and _you’re my mortal enemy_ , to say nothing of the added awkward element of _we almost sort of dated?_ (not even real exes) _,_ but Newt _cares_ for the guy. He still doesn’t like seeing Hermann work himself into the ground, or doze off at his chalkboard from exhaustion, or blame himself for every felled jaeger. “I feel like Hermann is too hard on himself,” he says. "And pushes himself too hard, too."

Hermann huffs next to him. “I could say the same of you,” he says. “You work as late as I do. Later, really.”

“Well, yeah,” Newt says, “but I’m—”

The words die on his tongue at the look at Hermann’s face. He looks hurt. Not for show, either. “More important?” Hermann says, icily.

“No,” Newt says, “no, come on, that’s not what I was gonna say!” Newt may act like it, especially when Hermann’s pissing him off, but he knows Hermann’s just as important as he is, just as necessary to their _cause_. Maybe more. Definitely more. Newt’s just...Newt. Newt has no trouble laying himself on the chopping block if it’s for the pursuit of science. Hermann, though... “You know I think you’re—”

“Newton doesn’t respect me, either,” Hermann declares. “Or my work. He mocks me, he makes a _mess_ of our lab,” and he adds quickly, “and our quarters—”

“I respect you!” Newt says. “You’re the one who doesn’t respect me!”

Glenn, looking desperate to take some control of the situation, cuts in with, “Why do you feel Dr. Gottlieb doesn’t respect you, Dr. Geiszler?”

“Are you kidding?” Newt says. “Hermann’s always telling me how _crazy_ and _wrong_ my theories are and acting like his are _so_ much better—”

“Because they’re dangerous,” Hermann snaps. “They’re dangerous and you’d hurt yourself if you tried to follow through with them, Newton, and I can’t—”

He shuts his mouth, flushing brilliantly. Newt stares at him in mild shock. “Shit,” he says. “Really?”

Hermann nods.

Glenn says a few more things to round out the first half of the session, but Newt doesn’t hear any of them, too distracted by Hermann’s _weirdly_ timed candor. When Glenn sends them off for a five minute break, neither of them move to get up. Hermann stares straight ahead out the window, where the sun’s beginning to set. “Hey,” Newt says. Hermann glances at him, working his jaw in his usual way, like he’s chewing an invisible piece of gum. “I’m sorry if—uh. I do respect you, Hermann.”

“Hm,” Hermann says.

“And I didn’t know you...gave a shit about me,” Newt continues. Hermann works his jaw some more.

“Newton,” he says, and Glenn chooses that minute to clap for everyone’s attention. Newt swears under his breath.

“Now,” Glenn says. “We’re all going to go around the circle and think about  _why_ we fell in love with our spouse. What we love about them the most. To rekindle some of that old spark, you folks gotta remember why it burned in the first place.” This guy’s metaphors fucking suck. “I’ll go first.” Glenn takes Michelle’s hand and squeezes it. “My favorite thing about Michelle is that she’s kind.”

“My favorite thing about Glenn,” Michelle says, squeezing it in return, “is that he’s patient.”

The sex therapist and his professor wife go next: he loves his wife’s poetry, and the way she looks in the morning when she’s half-asleep; she loves his eyes and how he always laughs at his own jokes. They knew they were in love when they went to the movies together and made the same sarcastic joke at the same time. Then it’s the Christian couple. Then it’s the pseudo-cousins. Newt spends the whole time mildly panicking: what does he like about Hermann? A _lot_ of things, if he’s being honest, more things than he should about his lab partner. Not more than a husband should, though. What did he _first_ like about Hermann, years and years ago, the first time he opened up his mailbox and found a neatly-written letter expressing an eagerness to work together to save the world? “Dr. Gottlieb?” Glenn says.

“Newton is reckless,” Hermann says, almost immediately, “and he’s foolish, and he’s self-centered, and he takes unnecessary risks and endangers himself.”

“Jesus, dude,” Newt says.

“Dr. Gottlieb,” Glenn says, “I’m not sure you understand—”

“Newton is also incredibly brave,” Hermann continues, “and intelligent, and thoughtful when he wants to be. Especially towards me.” His ears turn red. “And I’ve—er—I’ve always quite liked his freckles.”

His _freckles_?

“When did you know you were in love?” Glenn says.

Hermann swallows heavily. “There was—a kaiju attack,” he says. “An hour earlier than I predicted. Newton was out in the city, at the time, and I was sure…”

Newt remembers that day, actually. He survived, obviously, but he was stuck in the shelter for at least six hours with no cell phone reception and no way to tell anyone that he wasn’t a Geiszlerian pancake on the sidewalk or bleeding out slowly in rubble somewhere. When he made it back into the dome, he had about twenty missed calls and at least double that in texts, all from Hermann, which devolved from “if you’re dead I’ll kill you” to “please answer”. And then Hermann fucking _hugged_ him when Newt stumbled back into the lab. It was brief, and Newt spent it tense and bewildered, but it was still a hug.

Hermann doesn’t continue. Glenn nods. “And you, Dr. Geiszler?”

“Uh,” Newt says.

(What does he like about Hermann?)

“Hermann’s weird,” Newt says. “Like, really weird. He tries to pretend he’s the normal one but he’s totally _not_ , at all. And he’s secretly funny as shit, you know,” he’s finding it difficult to stop, “and also kind of an uptight asshole, but I dig it. And he’s got a cute smile.” On the rare occasions he smiles, it  _is_ cute. Newt can’t lie about that.

“You’re supposed to compliment—” Glenn sighs. “Nevermind. When did you realize you were in love with Dr. Gottlieb?”

“It was, uh, when we were still penpals,” Newt begins, and he can feel Hermann’s eyes on him. “He writes his sevens with little,” he mimes crossing something, “lines through them. I thought it was...sweet.” (Everything about Hermann was sweet and cool and romantic, back then, every new thing Newt learned about him made his heart pound and his imagination race.) “Not as exciting as Hermann’s big moment, but.”

He gets another set of perfunctory, polite smiles from Glenn and Michelle, and then they move onto Karen and her husband. Hermann doesn’t look away from him once for the remainder of the hour.

 

“Wanna head to the spa again?” Newt says as they eat dinner later. They’ve all been given homework for their next session—determining where it all went wrong, when the first _cracks_ began to appear, and discussing it with their spouses—and Hermann’s been strangely quiet all night. Not that he’s usually jumping at the chance to engage Newt in conversations, but Newt expected a mocking comment or two about the dumb shit he said in therapy, or at least his dietary choices for this meal (Newt is a vegetarian, but of the more ‘processed junk and fries don’t have meat in them’ variety, as opposed to the ‘I love vegetables’ variety, and Hermann takes excessive pleasure in pointing this out). “I won’t act like a jackass this time.”

“How courteous of you,” Hermann says, and then pokes around at his potato slices. “I don’t want to, no, not tonight.”

“Pool?” Newt says. “Hot tub? We could take a picnic to the beach—”

“Newton,” Hermann says, narrowing his eyes suspiciously. “Why are you determined to spend time with me?”

Truthfully: Newt is desperate to find out exactly how much _realness_ was behind Hermann’s miniature speech extolling his virtues today, and if he actually meant any of it at all. If he actually, you know—but he can’t tell Hermann this, though. Obviously he doesn’t. “No reason,” Newt says, quickly. “We’re husbands, aren’t we? Shouldn’t we keep up appearances?”

Hermann pokes another bit of potato. He says nothing else.

 

Often Newt wonders what would’ve happened if their first meeting hadn’t gone absolutely fucking abysmal. (Not just cracks appearing, to steal Glenn's little turn of phrase. Smashing the whole proverbial vase.) If Newt had acted like less of a narcissistic ass, maybe, if his nerves at seeing Hermann—Hermann! the coolest guy on the face of the planet—hadn’t mutated his personality into something entirely unrecognizable and entirely unlikable (most of the meeting is a blurry whirlwind, save for Hermann’s _palpable_ disappointment and not-so-polite dismissal, but Newt remembers speaking fast and over Hermann, jumping from topic to topic, and making jokes that fell flat, including an utterly mortifying one about Hermann joining him in his hotel room for some _deep joint research_ ). Maybe they’d be something more than lab partners. Maybe they’d _actually_ be husbands by now.

This the shit Newt usually thinks about when he gets plastered, ever since 2017, when Hermann stopped writing to him and basically cut him out of his life entirely. But tonight Newt’s horrifyingly and utterly sober when he considers the topic, staring up at the poster above the door that declares _Marriage is sharing life with your best friend, enjoying the journey along the way and arriving at every destination...together_ and eating more body chocolate while Hermann takes another bath.

(Newt suspects Hermann’s just trying to avoid him.)

Newt wishes he had a best friend to share his life with. Is Hermann his best friend? By process of elimination, Newt supposes he has to be. He’s certainly Newt’s _only_ friend. Newt’s not now, or ever was, exactly Mr. Popular. “Hey, Hermann,” he says, as Hermann—in pajamas, this time, no silly fluffy robe—steps out into the bedroom with a damp towel clutched in his free hand. “Are we best friends?”

Hermann stares at him. “Newton, were you crying?”

Newt swipes the back of his hand under his glasses. “No.” Stupid motivational Pinterest posters. “Are we, though?”

Hermann eases himself onto the side of the bed and arranges his cane carefully against the bedside table. “Are we what?”

“Best friends.”

Hermann doesn’t answer him, but he does look disapprovingly at Newt’s chocolate-smeared chin, his messy t-shirt, his more-than-a-little-greasy hair. “You’d do well with a bath, too,” he says. Newt almost makes another crack about having one together as husbands, but he doesn’t want a repeat of last time when Hermann got weird about it, so he just sticks his tongue out at Hermann instead. “Filthy _and_ rude,” Hermann says, and tsks.

They settle into silence. It’s not exactly comfortable, but it’s a step up from that last time they had to share a room. “Hermann?” Newt says.

“Mm?”

“I really do respect you,” Newt says. “And your work. I wasn’t just saying that. You’re a literal genius, man.”

“Oh.” Something soft flickers across Hermann’s face. “Er. Thank you, Newton.”

“And I’m sorry for acting like a fucking dick all the time,” Newt presses on, “and pissing you off just because I can, and acting reckless, and I know you probably hate me—”

“Newton,” Hermann says, gently, but now that Newt’s started he can’t stop.

“And I’m sorry for screwing everything up back then, and not even making a fucking effort to fix it—”

“ _Newton_.” Hermann covers Newt's hand. “Please.”

Newt takes a shaky breath. Hermann gives him a very small smile.

“I am just as much at fault for our...unfortunate first meeting as you are,” Hermann says. “I was nervous and certain you wouldn’t like me, and I allowed it to color my judgement. And I certainly don’t hate you, don’t be ridiculous.”

“Look at you,” Newt says. “Unleashing those emotions!” He twists his hand that’s under Hermann’s so their palms are touching instead. It feels nice. Too nice. The same feeling from the spa earlier that day settles over him, so Newt immediately goes and sticks his foot in his mouth because he doesn't know how to do anything else. “Is this that intimacy that Glenn wanted us to find together?”

Hermann jerks his hand away. “Every time,” he says, “you must go and _ruin_ it.”

“Ruin what?”

“You make it into some joke,” Hermann continues. “As if the very prospect is—”

“The prospect of _what_?”

“Of a relationship between the two of us!”

He sounds genuinely hurt. A cold, anxious panic rises in Newt's chest. “Whoa, whoa,” Newt says, “okay, back up. I’m not making it into a joke. I was just trying to make it less awkward.”

“By offering to bathe with me,” Hermann says, “stripping in front of me, calling me _sweetheart_ —”

“Okay,” Newt says, “okay, maybe I was a little—off base. Why do _you_ care? It’s not like you—” Everything clicks into place. “Holy shit! Hermann, do you like me?”

Hermann’s ears go red, and he does that weird chewing gum-jaw shifting again. “Ah. Against my own—better judgement—”

“Dude,” Newt says, elation replacing anxiety, “are you really gonna make a love confession backhanded?”

Hermann sniffs. “‘Love confession’ is very presumptuous, Newton.”

Newt grabs him by the lapels of his stupid plaid pajamas and kisses him. It’s not earth-shattering, or anything. Newt doesn’t see stars. Their teeth clack together a bit, Newt’s glasses fog up, and it all tastes like an unpleasant combination of chocolate and Hermann’s toothpaste, but Newt’s giddy and beaming when he pulls away and Hermann matches him almost identically. “My freckles, huh?” Newt teases, at a loss for anything else to say (because dropping an _I've been in love with you for ten years_ bomb seconds after their first kiss seems uncool), and Hermann slides his hand up to cup the side of Newt’s face.

Newt liked kissing Hermann, and he likes being touched by Hermann just as much.

“They’re really rather sweet,” Hermann says, rubbing his thumb over a few on Newt’s cheek and still smiling that happy, dazed smile. Then the left corner of his mouth twitches down a little. “I can’t promise I won’t still get cross with you, you know,” he says, suddenly serious, “especially when you’re acting like a reckless idiot.”

Newt laughs. “ _I_ can’t promise I won’t act like a reckless idiot.” 

Hermann sighs, but he doesn’t drop his hand from Newt’s cheek. Newt takes this as an invitation to duck away from it and scoot in and snuggle up against Hermann’s side. “This cool?” he says. Hermann nods. Newt inches an arm across Hermann’s stomach. “This?” Hermann nods again. Newt presses his face to the crook of Hermann’s neck, then places a very firm, deliberate kiss there. Hermann inhales sharply. Newt lifts up his head. “No?”

Hermann’s ears are that same fierce red as before. “No,” he says, and then adds hurriedly, “I mean—yes!, you can—”

If it were any other day, Newt would be down with getting Hermann out of those dorky pajamas as soon as possible, but this is all a lot to take in, so for now he’d rather just cuddle. They have five more days ahead of them to do whatever they’d like, after all. He tugs on Hermann’s arm; Hermann (getting the hint) wraps it around Newt’s waist and pulls him close. It’s nice. It’s warm. He can feel Hermann’s heart beating, feel his chest rising and falling, feel the way his breathing ruffles Newt’s hair (like it had that morning, when they woke up in each other’s arms). It’s all perfect. Except.

“Hermann,” Newt says, eyes fixed on the photo of Glenn and Michelle above their heads. “Can we please take that creepy-ass picture down? I feel like someone’s watching us through the eyeholes. Like we're in Scooby Doo or something."

“Yes,” Hermann says, also staring up at it. “It is...unsettling.” He wriggles his way into a sitting position, reaches up and snags it from the wall, and places it very carefully in the bedside table drawer just underneath _Sex, Love, and Kaiju_. There are no holes gouged out in the newly-revealed drywall where the eyes of the picture’s occupants would’ve been, but Newt still feels better with it out of sight. “This whole place is strange,” Hermann continues, once he’s wrapped Newt in his arms again. He laughs suddenly. “Oh. I’d almost forgot. That man here with us, with the beard and the garish turtlenecks—”

“The sex therapist!” Newt says, excitedly.

“Yes. Unfortunately,” Hermann says. “He cornered me at dinner when you were in the toilets and kept offering to help us with our _intimacy issues_.”

“Help us?”

“Yes,” Hermann says. “Watch us as we—” he clears his throat, “you know—” Newt leers at him, just for fun, and to see him blush, “—and offer advice.”

“Hot,” Newt says. “You said yes, I hope.” Hermann pinches his back. “I’m kidding!”

They lapse into a comfortable silence. After a few more moments, Hermann kisses the top of Newt's head. “Newton, get the light, will you, dear?”

Hermann sounds sleepy, but he called Newt  _dear_. Newt’s heart flutters a bit, and he beams again. He hopes Hermann calling him nice names becomes a reoccurring thing. “Yeah! Yeah, okay, of course.”

 

* * *

 

They survive the rest of counseling without being indoctrinated into any cults, and even get around to making good use of the bathtub. When it's time to go, Newt tries to empty the contents of the bureau into his suitcase and let the PPDC pick up the tab for him (forcing the military to use their budget on his sex toys is direct action, actually), but Hermann catches him in the act and that's the end of that plan. They're summoned to Peter's office barely an hour after they make it back to the Hong Kong Shatterdome, and Newt and Hermann sacrifice their pride and feign enthusiasm about their week of therapy and how  _helpful_ it was for their relationship (that part only half a lie) just to get out of there quickly.

“I feel like we should send in a testimonial,” Newt says a few weeks later, poking around in the lab microwave wiring once more. “You know, for one of those little pamphlets. ‘I relearned passion in a single week. Dr. Hermann Gottlieb, PhD.’”

“Mm,” Hermann says. “No.”

“‘I used to be afraid of intimacy and also I was a huge nerd,’” Newt says, “‘and now I have a sexy biologist boyfriend. Dr. Hermann Gottlieb, PhD.’”

“Newton.”

“‘I’ve never been more sexually fulfilled in my entire life. Dr. Hermann Gottlieb, PhD.’”

“Newton, dear,” Hermann says. Newt pokes his head over the back of the microwave. Hermann’s standing a few feet in front of him, thick parka zipped up to his throat and watching Newt expectantly. “We’ll be late for our dinner reservations.”

Newt wipes his hands off on his jeans, grinning, and takes Hermann's proffered arm.

**Author's Note:**

> twitter: hermanngaylieb, tumblr: hermannsthumb


End file.
